


Five Times Loki Felt Loved Before He Fell

by TwinKats



Series: ThorKink Fills [2]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Kinkmeme prompt fill from ages back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinKats/pseuds/TwinKats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And The One Time After</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Loki Felt Loved Before He Fell

**One**

The first time Loki ever felt that bubbling warmth deep in his soul, a type of contentment that could not be faked, an acceptance and everything so _good_ about the world, was a time he did not know nor remember. It was on the cold wastes of Jotunheim, after Laufey’s defeat, deep inside the Temple. He was miserable and crying and bawling. Everything was _too cold_ and he was so hungry and so alone and it was so _dark._

And then he came, glowing a golden warmth and picked his too small body up into his too large hands and stroked his bald little head and he had stopped crying. It wasn’t cold anymore, but _warm_. It was so very warm, and the dark shifted away for an almost blinding light. He let out a little coo and raised his hands, catching one of the All-Father’s fingers in his tiny palm.

With a baby yawn little Loki tugged that finger into his mouth and settled off into sleep, secure and safe and feeling _loved_ for the first time. For yes, even little baby Frost Giants needed love.

**Two**

The second time Loki was about four. It was dark out, night had fallen, and he’d just awoken from a horrible nightmare. Little Loki was curled in his big boy bed with his blankets wrapped around him crying and calling, “Mummy, daddy, T’or!” over and over again. He felt alone and scared and too cold because it was so dark.

Just like the Temple that he couldn’t remember, that loneliness of hunger and cold and darkness that had ingrained itself into a sense of fear. He was afraid that his mummy and daddy and T’or had abandoned him back in those snow strewn wastes. If they hadn’t surely they would’ve come by now?

Then the light burst on in the hallway and then in his room and suddenly he was being scooped up into this big, big arms and cradled to a clothed chest and his daddy was rumbling a soft lullaby to his ear with promises that he was here, he wasn’t gone, and that it was _okay_ Loki because daddy loves you. Daddy’s not gonna leave you behind.

The bubbling warmth curled and coiled deep into his chest and slowly Loki’s sobs fell away as his little four year old fingers clung tightly to his daddy’s tunic and he calmed himself into soft little hiccupping sobs instead of the giant big heaping cries he was bellowing early.

His daddy lifted him up and rocked him gently, all the way singing that gentle lullaby and feeding him that _warmth_ and all the love that he could ever want. His daddy carried him out of his room and down the hall into mummy and daddy’s room where mummy sat in the bed, frizzle haired and worried. His daddy handed him over to his mummy and she stroked his dark locks and made soothing whispers and then his daddy wrapped them both into a hug and continued to sing his lullaby to him in those deep rumbling tones.

It was the first night Loki had ever been without his T’or in the same room because T’or was six and T’or was sick. His mummy and his daddy hadn’t realized how much being separated from his T’or would affected, how much being alone in that big dark room all by himself would scare them. And so for a full week while his T’or got better his mummy and his daddy kept him in their room, like when he was a little baby, and sung him soothing lullaby’s and fed him all the love he could ever need until his T’or returned.

Loki never knew that his skin had turned blue and his green eyes red that night, and that it was his daddy’s loving touch that made the blue and red bleed back to pale peach and green.

**Three**

Loki was eight. He’d grown taller, just a bit more limbs than muscle, and had taken to following Thor around everyone. He’d long since dropped calling his older brother T’or (except when he was alone in their bedroom and feeling particularly vulnerable) because calling Thor T’or was not something big kids did. Big kids used _real_ names and T’or wasn’t a real name.

At eight Loki got into a lot of trouble. He was mischievous and he got _very_ jealous of how Thor no longer paid attention to him and so he almost always pulled some sort of mischief on the ones he perceived responsible for stealing his big brother away. He kicked Hogun in the shins, poured laxative in Volstagg’s food, and bespelled Fendral to smell absolute _horrible_ to everyone but himself.

He always, _always_ left that girly boy Sif alone because that girly boy didn’t do anything to really steal Thor’s attention away. That girly boy wasn’t all that interesting, in fact, and Loki felt secure in that knowledge.

But then one of Thor’s many admirers (whom Loki never bothered to remember the names of besides Hogun, Fendral, Volstagg, and Sif) got fed up with the littlest Prince constantly following his big brother around and causing mischief to those he felt stole Thor’s attention and grabbed him. Now Loki was a big boy, and therefore he could handle himself. He knew magic of the likes not many of Asgard ever knew!

But Loki was eight and these boys were _twelve_ and that was a big difference to the littlest Prince. But he was a big boy and he could hold his own, he knew he could! So he tried to fight back, he squirmed and cried and shouted out spell after spell (which unfortunately the little Prince only knew some color changing spells and some smell spells—little things that work as pranks—oh and that one invisibility trick but that was for a last resort) and when none of that worked he scratched and clawed and bit at his attackers.

Then Thor came rushing over demanding what was going on and the second he saw his little brother with a bruise and a slightly bloodied lip and these big tears falling out of his eyes those big twelve year olds found themselves on the ground groaning with Thor standing above them showing Loki just where to hit to make it count the most.

And so Loki stomped as hard as he could with his little eight year old feet on those big twelve year olds dingly bits and Thor crowed him a winner of this fight and then carried him around on his shoulders. Loki grinned wide and large and he felt warm and happy and safe and secure and when his mummy and his daddy found out what had happened they, too, praised him on being a strong big boy and his mummy taught him little tricks to get his way from mean twelve year olds while his daddy taught him some new magic tricks and Loki felt as if everything was _perfect_.

**Four**

Sixteen came around and rolled by and gone were the childish pranks along came _adventure_ that he somehow got dragged into by Thor (because it was _always_ Thor, interrupting his studies and his books and pulling him along some asinine adventure that Loki just did _not_ want to go on thank you) but in the end he always loved because he was able to bring home some sort of bauble or artifact to study more.

Loki at the age of sixteen was a quiet and sort of introverted young man. He preferred his studies and his magic over the constant fighting and warmongering Thor and his friends liked to do. He preferred sitting in the gardens to gallivanting off on some new quest to get this or that thing. He preferred his logic puzzles to Thor’s feats of strength.

Loki at the age of sixteen had honed his talents in magic so much so that he was the most powerful and youngest sorcerer in the Nine Realms ignoring Odin. He had bettered his tricks and his lies and his pranks until it was hard to actually _pin_ the blame on him, the littlest Prince, without having actual _proof_ despite the fact that everyone knew it was he who was at fault.

Loki at the age sixteen was currently caught in a rather poor trap, unbefitting of his stature as the Trickster, the Liesmith, the Silvertongue. He’d snuck off once he’d heard wind that Mjolnir, Thor’s to-be gifted weapon upon his eighteenth birthday, had gone missing when some of the Dwarven clans had shown up to remodel a portion of the Palace.

He had figured that it wouldn’t be too much work to trick those Dwarves into giving up the famed hammer for one such as he and in all his arrogance hadn’t expected things to come to _this_. For not only had they stolen _Mjolnir_ but they had stolen _Gungnir_ and the fine gold spun wig that Loki had crafted with his magic for the Lady Sif after that miscast spell that had lead to her golden locks turning brown.

Then the only way Loki could conceivably get those three precious artifacts back from these Dwarven thieves was to wager them, of course the only thing that the Dwarves seemed remotely to accept as a worthy wager was Loki’s own _head_. The Prince figured whatever; he’d win the wager no contest.

Only he didn’t and the Dwarven thieves were all ready to chop off his head but Loki was quick and clever and so he’d called out, “Aye I wagered my head but in nowhere was it said you could have my _neck!_ And I do believe the two are quite connected.”

He made to leave in the confusion but the Dwarven thieves did not remain confused long and tackled him down. They held him spread eagle on the dirt floor and one had sneered and said, “Then let us do you a favor, Trickster Prince, and sew those pretty lips of your shut so that you may never utter a lie again!”

 _Oh_ that had hurt, and that led to _now_. Now Loki sat with his retrieved treasures that the Dwarven thieves had stolen in the first place, bloody mouthed and silenced and _stuck._ He was thirsty and hungry and he felt so, so, _so cold_. There was no way he’d be able to gain Heimdall’s attention to get him to open the bifrost, not like this, and if he did not get water soon (or even treatment for his sewn lips) then he’d very well die out here, in these cold mountain lands that those Dwarven thieves had stolen away to.

Loki resigned himself to a fateless, loveless, lonely death with Odin came riding up with Frigga and Thor on hroses and almost instantly both mother and father dismounted the minute they saw their son and raced right over to him. Frigga took his face in her hands and studied the magical threads that kept his mouth shut and then jerked back with a gasp.

“Oh my baby…” she breathed and then pulled him into a hug. Odin’s face was thunderous, enraged and he demanded in which direction where the heathens who did this. Loki could only shrug as fresh tears began to fall down the ever familiar path. His mouth _hurt_ and _bled_. He did not like not speaking and he hated this pain!

Thor ambled over and hugged his other side, muttering, “Brother you should not have gone off on your own…” Loki tried to speak but ended up making a pitiful whine in the back of his throat instead and Odin stopped his bloodthirsty ranting at the heathens that had done this almost instantly.

The All-Father marched right up to Loki and scooped the lanky teenager into his arms. He rumbled a soft lullaby and Loki curled into his father’s embrace. The tears fell less and soon his eyes began to droop and he began to drift off, bundled in Odin’s arms and feeling that coiling creeping warmth again.

When Loki would awake he’d be in Odin and Frigga’s bed, curled into Odin’s lap as Odin carded his fingers through his dark locks much like he’d done when he was a little boy. Frigga would be there was well, stroking the back of Loki’s palm murmuring soothing words. Loki would whimper just softly, “Mummy, daddy,” and both would shush him and hum a little lullaby and he’d drift off.

The next time he’d realize the threads were gone, and the next he’d find Thor standing in the doorway, bloodied and holding the severed heads of the Dwarven thieves.

**Five**

Loki was twenty the next time he felt that curling feeling and the warmth and comfort and safety of his parents. He was twenty and he knew by now just what that feeling meant—that it meant he was loved and beloved and they cared so much for him. This time it wasn’t some big circle of comfort, or anything of the sort.

No, Loki was twenty and his father stood before both him and Thor. They were both knelt on the floor, as equals, and Odin summoned forth the servant who carried two pillows. Upon those two pillows rested two helms.

“Thor, Odinson, my eldest and first born,” Odin uttered, “I give to you this. May you wear it in pride.” It was a feathered cap like thing and Loki had to withhold a snort and keep his face perfectly straight. “Loki, Odinson, my second born and precious child,” Odin uttered, “I give to you this. May you wear it in pride.” His helm was horned, the horns curling back to rest close towards the nape of his neck.

Horns like Odin’s own crowned helm, that he wore when he was seated upon the throne. It warmed the corners of his heart that Odin would share adornments in such a manner. After all _Thor_ didn’t get horns. He just had feathers.

Loki couldn’t withhold the snickers at that thought.

**And The One Time After**

He was on Midgard, getting a drink as he was want to do in the hours after a bout of a little mischief and a bit of mayhem and some villainy. All it truly was, was just a giant old prank, really. He did everything to get out this horrible guilt rending feelings he’d started to feel back when Odin first stared down at him, hanging from the bridge, and told him _no_.

The drinking helped quell the memories and smash the guilt away.

Of course he hadn’t counted on _Thor_ and _Thor’s friends_ deciding to drink in this very same bar this evening. He scowled and hunkered down into his little corner, praying and _hoping_ they don’t realize he’s there at all.

Of course nothing ever liked to go his way these days, really, and just as he got up to leave (because _fuck_ if Thor’s friends weren’t a rambunctious sort of drunkards) he got spotted and molested all in one moment.

That Hawk fellow bellowed out, “ _LOKI!_ ” and that Stark fellow fell all over him and ended up grasping his balls with a leering grin and somehow knocking him to the floor.

“Get off me you oaf!” Loki snarled out and then Thor was reaching over and pulling Stark off of Loki and arching an eyebrow.

“Why are you here, brother?” he asked (and if the words _brother_ despite everything don’t warm the cockles of Loki’s heart—he squishes the thought and feeling down) and Loki sneered.

“What? Can’t I drown my sorrows away in peace?” the words are spit like acid and Thor frowned but he doesn’t say what Loki expected (which is a dumbfounded “Sorrows, brother?” as if Loki had no reason to feel such a thing) no, instead Thor pulled Loki to his feet and looked decidedly awkward for a brief minute.

Then he asked, “You are not here to cause trouble? There is no need to ah, combat you, yes?”

Loki blinked slowly because, really, did he _look_ like he was in his work clothes here? Thor grinned and laughed, “No, Loki, you do not look to be in your work clothes.”

“I said that out loud?” the Trickster asked, a bit surprised. “I must be more tipsy than I thought,” was muttered after and Thor _laughed_ , a loud booming sound and Loki found himself grinning too because _fuck_ he missed Thor’s laugh.

Oh there are the tears. _Wonderful_.

“Oh, brother, Loki, don’t cry—” Thor said suddenly and pulled Loki into a hug and spirited him off into the Avengers’ corner where Banner (the only _not_ drunk of the lot, and yes that meant even _Coulson_ was smashed) watched them with an almost wary eye because the others were too far gone to notice the villain in their midst now.

“T’or,” Loki almost sobbed the childish nickname and hugged his big brother close. Thor could barely make out the words ‘so sorry didn’t mean to it just hurt too much why would he lie why would mummy and daddy lie like that’ and it was _very obvious_ that Loki was far more than just tipsy now. He was completely hammered and Thor could do nothing but rock him back and forth and hum that selfsame lullaby in an attempt to soothe the distraught young Prince.

“They don’t blame you,” he murmured inbetween humming. “Oh Loki, mother and father want you _home_. They’ve been so worried….”

That night as the Avengers left off for the mansion with Banner driving as the only sober one, no one but Banner noticed their tag along that was bundled tightly into Thor’s arms. Loki had at some point drifted off into a broken and weary sleep and Thor continued humming that selfsame lullaby, trying to soothe his fragile little brother.

In the morning Loki would awake in Thor’s arms, with Thor stroking his hair like Odin once did, and Thor humming that same lullaby still. They’d talk then, and Loki would break down again, encased in that warm curling feeling of safety and comfort and contentment and love. He’d fall asleep once more and then wake up a few hours later in the same position only this time Thor would be snoring away and Loki would extricate himself from his brother’s clutches and place a kiss to his brothers brow.

He’d murmur, “T’or,” softly and then slip away. And next time he and Thor would meet on the battlefield it wouldn’t be as enemies (because truly Loki wasn’t quite an enemy) but more as two brothers playing a game like it should have been from the start.

And maybe on that battlefield (or mock battlefield if you want to get technical) Loki would break down into sudden hysterical laughter and Thor would pause and ask, “What is so funny, brother?” and Loki would have to pause to catch his breath.

He’d say, “ _Feathers!_ ” and fall back into that hysterical laughter again and this time Thor would snort and then laugh as well and once the laughing is done Loki might vanish his trick and disappear, leaving behind a little note to meet up later for a drink and _talk_ as brothers should.

And the Avengers, of course, would be all confused about what just happened and why Thor was grinning like a loon but they’d give in after a minute because any day Loki was _not_ causing mischief was a _good day_.

And it is good. Everything is _good_. Maybe not perfect, but that’s alright, because why would love be _perfect?_ It comes with good and bad in the end, and that’s all that matters.


End file.
